


People Pressure

by petrichor3145



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Jefferson likes Macaroni, M/M, Social Anxiety, jeffmads - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 05:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15503490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrichor3145/pseuds/petrichor3145
Summary: James Madison has always wanted to blend in better with the crowd. Talk to people more, make some friends, join a clique. Now he's an adult and about as far away from that life as he can possibly get.Until he meets Thomas Jefferson and the world turns upside down.





	1. People Pressure

James Madison awakens to the head-piercing blaring of an alarm clock. He stretches, acutely aware of how much he _doesn’t_ want to leave the warm sanctuary of his bed and go downstairs.

His laptop is downstairs.

With countless unfinished ideas and maybe one or two complete ones locked in the depths of its search system.

James doesn’t want to come off as _that writer who never gets anything done_ to his new editor, one Thomas Jefferson. Unfortunately, he is “that writer,” and in addition, he’s terrified to meet the guy, only having talked to him, like, twice over the phone. But the appointment is at four today, and the gears in his head won’t turn themselves.

With a sigh, James reluctantly drags himself out of bed, not bothering to reach for his contacts or stop by the bathroom to freshen up. He has no one here to impress.

A muffled mewl from the next room instantly puts a grin on his face. Well, maybe not _no one_. Does a cat count?

Nelly bounds in, sharp green eyes ever-judging and ever-demanding. James gives in to her request as she sidles up to rub against him, petting the smooth, white fur of her back. Maybe Nelly hadn’t chosen to live with him, but she sure seems happy here.

James wanders into the kitchen, glancing at the refrigerator calendar and wincing as his suspicions of the date are confirmed. Today is the day he will meet Thomas Jefferson, his new editor.

One of the many reasons James had chosen to become an author was to get _away_ from people, not to have them bully their way to his door in search of him. He’d tried to tell Jefferson the visit wasn’t necessary over the phone, but he’d simply shrugged James off. He had seemed enthusiastic, for whatever reason, about meeting James, and he’d made it clear he got what he wanted. Besides, James has never been able to say no.

So now James is left to somehow make himself seem professional and cool-headed, neither of which he specializes in. Of course he can “get in the zone,” as they say, when he’s writing something or watching a mindless television program, but it’s like he loses his cool in front of strangers. And that fact is about to become painfully apparent to Jefferson and the rest of the novel-loving world. In, to be precise, about seven hours.

James strokes Nelly on the head for a bit to sooth his nerves, apprehension giving way to a taut string of dread carving out his stomach. He needs to calm down. It’s only a forty-five minute meeting to discuss general book ideas he’s had, not a session in hell for James to bare himself naked to Jefferson with all his faults as a writer.

He briefly entertains the idea of what Jefferson might look like. He sounded cool and confident over the phone, so perhaps short and suave, with a crisp black suit run amok with fuzz from the fabric? Or maybe the tone was pure arrogance, and the man is lanky and clumsy, with an overused “decorative” handkerchief for sweaty palms.

Either way, James will have to get along with him. He just hopes he doesn’t say the wrong thing, or come off as weird or gross or ugly. He just wants to prove to be _good enough_ for this new editor.

One of his few friends in the publishing industry, Angelica Schuyler, had said this in response to these doubts: “Honey, I know Thomas, and I know you, and trust me: that man would deny a penny had the _capability_ to land on tails if he only saw the heads side. You don’t have to prove anything to a two-faced, lying hack like him, so don’t worry your pretty little head about it, alright?”

Then again, Angelica Schuyler may have a bit of a temper problem, and from what he’s heard from late-night rants, she hates quite a few unlucky souls, so, who’s James to judge Jefferson based on that?

James fishes one last spoonful of artificially-colored cereal from his bowl and abruptly stands, considering the clutter of papers around the counters, the pile of uncleaned dishes protruding from the sink, the thick layer of dust which (tellingly) coats an old exercise machine he’s been trying to use more often.

He rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and dons a pair of blue latex gloves. Jefferson will arrive in six hours and eighteen minutes, according to the digital clock on James’ oven.

In the meantime, James has got work to do.

(Cont.)

It’s finally time. The clock on his flip-phone shows 3:56 in beeping letters.

James had managed to get some writing done after cleaning the house to an unheard of degree, plopping down with some watermelon and his ancient laptop and just putting down any crappy ideas he happened to come up with. Now, he’s sat with the computer closed in front of him and a sharp, striped blue shirt with a lighter tie draped over his body. He may have gotten them just a few sizes too big, but he’s never one for wasting perfectly good clothes.

A fruit bowl is set on the table for just in case Jefferson wants any snacks. James isn’t exactly sure about correct guest protocol when one visits his house, since he’s managed to avoid having anyone over for the most part ever since buying it, but he doesn’t want to appear as if he doesn’t want Jefferson over (even if he really doesn’t).

James checks the clock again, shifting uncomfortably. 4:18. Maybe Jefferson is stuck in traffic or an emergency came up or—

A knock at the door, followed by the repeated ringing of the doorbell.

Jumping embarrassingly at each spontaneous ring, James pushes himself into a standing position and ambles over to the door, an anxious lump in his throat. _Why_ couldn’t Jefferson have insisted on anywhere besides his house, where James could have no escape from his prying, judging eyes?

Deciding to take his bitter medicine all at once, James yanks the door open, revealing the figure of his new editor.

He’s tall, taller than most and most _certainly_ taller than James, probably by a foot or so. Then again, that assumption may be fueled by the countless dark, bouncing curls which likely add a few more inches to his appearance, sticking straight up with defiance. Despite that, they’re shiny and healthy and full of character all on their own, naturally framing Jefferson’s face as they dangle down and frizz on the ends.

Jefferson is smirking lazily, as though it’s his default expression. He’s leaning against the doorframe, half-lidded brown eyes trained down at James. His skin is a shade or two darker than tan, and covering his chin is a thin layer of well-trimmed facial hair. It’s hard to pull off, and James is almost impressed he was able to get it right.

In short, the man holds himself with such rightfully-earned confidence that James almost feels inadequate to be standing here, right in front of him. He shifts his gaze to the ground to avoid eye contact.

“Um, hi,” he mutters, hoping he was audible the first time so he doesn’t have to repeat himself.

He hears the shuffling of the fine (expensive) business suit Jefferson’s wearing. “Hi yourself,” he says, much louder than James had been, “I’m your new editor, Mr. Madison. The name’s Thomas Jefferson, but you can just call me Thomas.”

James is going to try to avoid calling him anything. What if he didn’t mean it, and calling him Thomas would be too personal and impolite and would make him uncomfortable? Or, worse, he gets mad because James calls him Mr. Jefferson and he actually _does_ want James to call him Thomas? But he can’t exactly just call him Thomas Jefferson, either, that sounds weird… 

“Right,” he says, after a moment. Ouch. Cold. Why does he always come off as cold?

A moment of awkward silence, in which James wishes the fiery pits of hell would just swallow him whole already.

He looks back at the man apprehensively. Jefferson is holding out a hand, James realizes with a jolt of panic, and probably has been waiting and now James has missed the que and Jefferson will most definitely hate him now if he hasn’t started to already and they’ll never talk face-to-face again and James will have to send him emails of his manuscript but that might just bother the man and he might tell James to stop bothering him and then he’ll be fired as an author and he’ll have to find a new job but then he might make the same mistake again and—

Resisting the urge to slam the door shut in Jefferson’s face, James takes a calming breath and shakes Jefferson’s outstretched hand, hoping the other man won’t notice that his hand is shaking. Maybe he can still salvage this if he plays it cool.

The pressure of Jefferson’s hand is, in some strange, ironic way, both intimidating and grounding, and James finds some of the edge taken off of his stress. Jefferson’s hands are bigger than his own, and they ooze just as much warmth and charisma as the rest of the man does in his effortless, confident way.

“How about we get down to business, Mr. Madison?” Jefferson asks.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah, right,” James says, inwardly cursing himself.

He abruptly turns around, walking back to the dining room where his computer was left and hoping Jefferson is following him. Maybe, on second thought, he should turn to make sure Jefferson is still with him. It’s awfully rude to leave someone standing at the door, confused and probably angry, after all.

As James turns back around, he hears a soft mewl. He’s greeted by the sight of Jefferson smiling (not smirking this time) and patting Nelly in the much-too-gentle way a person who likes cats but has never owned one tends to do. Nelly, usually an impatient, fickle cat, seems to like Jefferson, placing her paws on his waist and stretching, all the while contentedly kneading against his thigh. Jefferson looks utterly charmed. “Aww,” he cooes, “and who is _this?_ ”

James smiles awkwardly. “Her name’s Nelly,” he says, because he can at least manage to provide simple information.

Jefferson cocks his head, holding eye contact with Nelly. “She’s adorable,” he says, apparently engaged in a staring contest with his cat.

“Well, she _is_ a cat,” James mumbles to himself as a half-hearted attempt at a joke.

Surprisingly, Jefferson startles into a hearty laugh. “Good one,” he chuckles once he’s simmered down some, to James’ utter bafflement.

James has told that joke countless times to countless people, and no one has ever, _ever_ laughed. Just who _is_ this Jefferson guy?

Jefferson gives Nelly one last back stroke and reluctantly pulls his hand away, looking back at James. He shifts under the bigger man’s gaze, fidgeting with his shirt and then wondering whether Jefferson will notice and stopping again. “So,” Jefferson segues, drawing the word out, “Let’s see what you got, shall we?”

James pulls open the heavy lid of the computer. As always, it resists as if begging for respite from the cruel world. As always, James denies the laptop its peace. The loading screen takes a full two minutes to transition, during which James sits with his shoulders tense, looking at the smooth wood of the table so as to avoid eye contact with Jefferson. He tries to relax his shoulders, but then his knee starts bouncing and his fingers start tapping out an erratic rhythm on the table, and the act results in a net loss. James coughs nervously.

“Are you sick?” Jefferson inquires casually, leaning one elbow against the table, and for a moment James envies his ability to be so completely calm.

“Ah, well, you know, on and off.” Which is true, though he’s not sick right now and the cough had been inspired elsewhere.

Jefferson looks a little sympathetic. “Weak immune system?”

“Indeed.”

As James berates himself yet again for his inability to communicate properly, the computer finally finishes loading. The desktop picture appears, littered by countless documents James had started and later abandoned.

“What’s your main project?” Jefferson leans to the right to see better, and James finds himself instinctually leaning away while alarm bells ring in his head, screeching to the tune of “TOO CLOSE: ABORT ABORT—”

“Um, uh, the one on the, uh, the top right,” James whispers, shrinking into himself and hoping Jefferson doesn’t notice. His pulse takes off at a sprint and he’s worried the other man can feel the heat from his flushing face.

Jefferson mutters a “hm,” presumably regarding the files, and clicks on the icon. It’s entitled “The Unalienable Rights of Man.” (He’s hoping the name doesn’t sound too pretentious.)

James has been working on that one for some time now, a lifetime of research cultivating in one long mass of dragging script. However dragging it may be, though, inside it carries what James considers to be basic truths about equality and personal freedom. Some of its claims are controversial, though, and James is nervous that Jefferson might have some personal qualms about its contents.

With less pressure to act professional now that Jefferson is skimming through the document, James fixes his eyes on the man’s facial expression as he reads. It’s one of intense concentration, judging from the furrow of dark brows and the slight downward tug of his lips. James finds his focus both admirable and endearing, and it’s enough to bring a small smile to his lips. 

James finds his gaze trailing down and lingering on various areas; his arms, his hands, his torso. He really does fill out a suit nicely, James thinks as his eyes travel over Jefferson’s gray suit and purple (purple!) tie. Even so, Jefferson wears the jacket-shirt-tie combo with such a natural posture that he must have been exposed them his entire life. He is, James hates to admit, very attractive.

Jefferson chooses to take this moment to stop skimming the digital pages and meet James’ eyes, catching him unaware. As James stares straight into the eyes of what must be the male version of Medusa, frozen right solid, he wonders irrationally whether Jefferson has read his thoughts and is disgusted with him.

But then Jefferson grins, a sultry smile unlike any of the others James has seen, one that’s filthy and unsavory and a little bit sexy, and suddenly James feels a pulse of adrenaline that could hardly be called anxiety. “Mr. Madison, you’ve made my day,” Jefferson drawls, and now James is unbearably curious to uncover the reason behind the crinkle in Jefferson’s eyes as he says it, why he looks so much like the cat who ate the canary.

Apparently, his interest shows on his face, because Jefferson explains, “You see, there are two editing companies in town: ours and Washington Manuscripts. We’re—how should I put this—competitors of sorts. And the best-selling product which just came out of them is something I, well, to put it frankly, think is just garbage. It’s all about how unhealthy behavior should be condemned by the government so as to prevent societal breakdown or something.”

Here, Jefferson waves a hand around vaguely. “I mean, we’re talking guns, drugs, hell, even supersized sodas! That’s nothing less than government control. No victim, no crime, am I right? The worst of it all, though,” Jefferson complains, clenching his teeth as though the very thought of it disgusts him, “is that _Alexander Hamilton_ wrote it.”

James startles, unprepared to recognize the name, but knowing of it nonetheless. Jefferson raises a perfectly-trimmed brow. “You know him?” he asks. James is almost scared of how well he reads people.

“Um, yeah. We—we wrote some papers together once in support of that bill to—to grant illegal aliens human rights in the USA,” James stammers.

Jefferson looks intrigued. “Really, now? Then you probably know how annoying Hamilton can be, right? Lemme guess; he did most of the work.”

Spot on, except for the part about Hamilton being annoying. Alexander is maybe some overbearing for a quiet guy like him, but James almost appreciates the way Alexander enthusiastically fills what would have been an awkward silence with mindless chatter. It puts James at ease and awakens his own talkative side. As a result, he and Alexander are a good pair when they put their heads together and disregard their political differences.

“Well,” James murmurs. God, Jefferson must think he’s an idiot by now, what with how little talking he’s been doing.

Jefferson has a faraway look in his eyes as he seems to consider something. Finally, he speaks up again. “Mr. Madison,” he says, “I think you and I are going to get along.”

“Why do you say that?” James asks, and instantly flinches. Oh God, that makes him sound rude, that wasn’t at all what he wanted—

“Because you and I both know Hamilton, and we both know your work, and we both know what he’s trying to do. Let’s stop him, Mr. Madison. This piece has the finesse and the boldness to contradict Hamilton’s socialism. Now, I may be stepping out of my bounds as an editor here, Mr. Madison, but just let me say this: I can and will make your book a success. It has the dry wit, the ideas, the ingenuity. All it needs now is the polish. So what do you say? Shall we work to make it polished?”

Jefferson is altogether too close now, gravitating towards James with the intensity he saw when Jefferson was reading through his rough draft earlier. James gulps silently, hoping Jefferson doesn’t notice, and nods his head carefully.

James has never been able to say no, but that’s not what this is about.

(Cont.)

Thomas Jefferson swishes the amber liquid of his drink around, enjoying the cold clink of ice hitting glass and humming in satisfaction.

Beside him, he hears Angelica Schuyler, a coworker who’s almost as opinionated as he is, grunt in disapproval. “Why don’t you just drink it already?” she groans, “you’re making me feel uncultured over here.”

Thomas simply smirks in response, tutting and murmuring, “ _Pas besoin de se précipiter, ma chérie._ ”

Angelica groans again and dives her face into her drink, taking a deep whiff of her wine and breathing out again in a frustrated sigh. “You _know_ I’m not fluent in French yet,” she complains, “you are such a jerk.”

Thomas has heard it from her mouth so many times that at this point, he would be surprised to hear her go five minutes in his presence without telling him so. “I’d have to disagree with you there,” he says.

Another weary sigh. “So,” she begins, changing the subject, “have you got any new work opportunities lately?”

“Don’t go asking things you already know the answer to, Miss Schuyler,” Thomas replies sardonically, “you were the one who recommended I look into Madison’s book in the first place.”

Angelica grins. “Caught me,” she giggles.

Now it’s Thomas’ turn to heave a sigh. “But really,” Angelica says, “how’s it going with him?”

Thomas turns a curious eye on her. Since when had Angelica been this openly concerned with Thomas’ career affairs? “Why do you wanna know?” he asks, taking a long sip of wine.

Angelica narrows her eyes as she growls, “I’ve just known him for awhile now and I know how he is, okay?”

She’s being defensive. “How he is?”

Angelica rubs at her temples. “I don’t know, just so—shy. If you get him going, he’ll talk for hours, but otherwise he just seems scared of everyone, for like, no reason.”

“That is odd,” Jefferson remarks, remembering the way the man had given him terse, one-word answers for the majority of his time at James’ house up until he left. “I just assumed he didn’t like me very much.” The thought is hard to swallow, even though Thomas has never considered himself to be particularly prideful.

Angelica nods in understanding. “I didn’t know people could be like that. Shy, yes, but _that shy?_ Unheard of,” she comments. “He’s such an introvert. Ah well. I’m sure he’ll get over it eventually, if no one harasses him about it.”

Angelica chuckles, hiding her smile behind her glass. “I was so surprised to see him hanging out with Alexander once,” she laughs, “they’re like polar opposites. Alexander was complaining about something and James was just nodding along silently.”

Thomas scoffs. “When isn’t Hamilton complaining? I’m surprised Madison could take Hamilton’s shit for more than a minute at a time. The man must have an endless amount of patience.”

Angelica nods, looking thoughtful. “So, when are you seeing him again?”

A smile flickers across Thomas’ face in spite of himself. “This next Friday in the morning. At Starbucks,” he brags.

Angelica, who had been taking a gulp of her drink, promptly chokes on it, still sputtering as she says, “You’re kidding.”

“Um, no?”

Angelica shakes her head. “I know I don’t say this often, but good luck, Jefferson.”

“Why?” he prods, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“You’ll see,” Angelica reassures with a chuckle, throwing her glass back and draining it empty.

Thomas shrugs, deciding to leave the issue be for now, and downs his own glass, never one to be outdone.

(Cont.)

After discussing the book and some critiques Jefferson had from his first impressions of it, Jefferson had given James his email address, told him to send a link to his story, and coaxed James into getting coffee at nine in the morning the next week to discuss some of the finer points of the novel. He’d left with a pompous wave, and that had been that. James was left by himself to worry about the next time he’d have to face the whirlwind that is Thomas Jefferson. He’s mostly a whirlwind in the sense that he leaves James winded, but still.

James has been nervously awaiting this day, sometimes stopping in the middle of reading his (very engaging) book just to obsess over what might go wrong in every facet of the meeting. Still, he sips at his morning tea and tries not to look like the nervous wreck that he is while he waits; it would set a bad example for Nelly.

He fits on a black polo shirt and a pair of trousers, tucks his computer carefully in his bag just in case, and says goodbye to his best friend in the whole world (his cat). Nelly just turns away, disinterested. And with that parting blow, James opens the door and greets the outer world.

The weather is overcast and wet, but not hot or humid. Rather, it’s cool and a little windy, the air still carrying the remnants of a spring shower. James has always felt most at home when the sky is gray and rumbles its warning to passersby. For some reason, the rain always makes him giddy inside, and he feels it bidding him good luck as he pushes on towards the Starbucks two blocks from his house.

However, as James approaches the building, he hesitates. What if it’s crowded and there’s nowhere to sit and he has to stand around awkwardly to wait for Jefferson and then he’s kicked out for not ordering anything? Or, worse, what if it’s too _empty_ inside and he’s the only customer there and the cashier is just staring and watching him, waiting for James to walk up and demand something of him?

James takes a calming breath. Okay, okay, he can do this. He _has_ to do this, he reminds himself, because if he didn’t then Jefferson might hate him and refuse to work with him any more. 

He steels himself and pushes through the doors, hating how the bell notifies everyone of his presence. Nobody turns to look at him, though, so it’s all good. It’s all good. James takes note of the room—there are a few people, but it’s not exactly crowded—just an old couple, dressed with flower prints from the 1900s and aided by slick black walking sticks, a group of teenaged girls, showing each other their mobile phones and giggling, and a harried mother nursing her baby. Predictably, Jefferson hasn’t arrived yet.

James soldiers up to the line of people, keeping his head down so as not to make accidental eye contact with anyone again. Jefferson had been bad enough, but meeting someone’s eyes for no reason, especially if it’s a total stranger, is much, much worse. 

His eyes scan the board up front, though he already knows what he’s going to order; he’s just doing it to look busy and distracted on the off-chance that someone might try to make small talk with him.

With no warning, someone bumps into him and he hears a muttered apology. He suddenly feels claustrophobic, like there’s a wall of people behind him, all trying to push him to stop holding up the line and crush him into oblivion and oh, god, he might just die in this coffee shop because nobody wants him here and why did he let Jefferson talk him into this and oh no the person in from of him is walking away leaving him to face the cashier by himself and wait does he even have money did he take his wallet with him when he left?

James sighs a breath of relief as he finds his wallet in his pocket, pulling it out with pale, shaking hands and managing to correctly word his order, making sure he doesn’t look at the man’s face again because he knows he’ll falter if he does. His voice is much too breathy as he squeaks, “One black coffee, please.”

He glues his eyes to the electric green cost which pops up on the screen and pulls out a bill, handing it to the guy with practiced non-seeing precision. After being handed the change and receipt, James gladly scurries away to find a nice table to sit at, ignoring the lump lodged deep in his throat. On his way, he throws the receipt in the trash can, figuring he won’t need it. He chooses the table in the far corner away from others and sets his bag down cautiously, irrationally fearing for a moment that he’s not allowed to sit here, that this table is somehow off-limits.

Nobody comes to tell him off, though, so James settles into the booth and pulls up a page on his laptop, waiting for Jefferson to arrive.

About ten minutes later, just when James is starting to fear that Jefferson had ditched him and is now laughing behind his back, the ringing of the doorbell alerts him to Jefferson’s presence.

He strolls over to the cashier from earlier and says something to the man, to which the guy nods and taps something on his register. Jefferson then continues to make small-talk with him, even eliciting a smile and a small chuckle from the man. James can only watch in unbridled admiration as Jefferson sweet-talks his way through his order, grabs two cups, and looks around the room, smiling when he spots James and raising one cup in an odd gesture.

Jefferson finally reaches James’ table. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Madison,” he says, shedding his overcoat and dumping it on the chair behind him. James is suddenly embarrassed that he dressed so casually himself.

“Um, you too,” he mumbles, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.

A cup of hot liquid is set on the table next to him. When James looks up in surprise, Jefferson explains, “This is yours. They said you didn’t pick it up when they asked, so…” He trails off.

James feels his face flush. “I’m so sorry to make you do that, I just—”

Jefferson interrupts. “Oh, it was no trouble at all, Mr. Madison,” he says.

“Right.”

They sit in awkward silence for about a minute, though it feels more like a year. James is acutely aware of the chatter in the background, bubbling loud enough to set him on edge. His muscles tense and untense and he feels trapped in his own head, unable to make any words come out of his mouth to lessen the weird mood that lays thick over the table. When was the last time James had left his house to be in public, anyway? How did Jefferson get him to agree to come here?

But then Jefferson smiles, and James remembers how. “I was able to finish reading the document you sent me,” Jefferson says.

James feels himself relax a little. “Oh, really?”

The other man nods. “Right now I’m,” a pause, “about a third of the way through basic edits, but I’d like to get your thoughts on how you’ll split it into chapters. It can’t stay as a single text, after all, so I’d recommend maybe about twenty or so?”

James nods. As they enter more comfortable territory, with Jefferson asking the questions and James providing his two cents, he slips into a more casual mindset and James can almost pretend he’s a regular person who can talk to people for a bit.

Halfway through, a young man dressed in a black apron with the company’s logo on it strides over to their table, interrupting their conversation. “Excuse me, sir,” he says, eyes burning holes into James, “did you pay for that?”

James’ eyes retreat to where the man had gestured sternly at the cup. “Yes, why?” he asks, heart seizing and pounding faster.

“I didn’t see you take it from the counter. Do you have the receipt?”

James shakes his head without eyeing the man, fidgeting restlessly with his fingers. His chest pounds in his throat, making black fuzz appear in his vision and forcing him to breath faster to accommodate its speed. Oh god, he’ll be put in prison for this and his family will disown him and he’ll never get a job again and everyone will hate him and oh no Jefferson’s probably staring at him and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe _he can’t breathe._

He needs to run, needs to get away. James stands up, sending a wave of nausea through his body and making his tongue turn metallic. His eyes flick from one face to another rapidly until they meet Jefferson’s, confused and surprised and _now he sees who you really are. Coward._

James catches sight of the little logo signifying the men’s restroom and _runs,_ every atom of his being telling him to flee from the worker, the noise, Jefferson, himself.

Everything inside him is twisting, pulling, squeezing and ripping away all his power, all his motivation to do _anything_ except crumple against the wall, hands curling against cold, smooth tiles. The first choked sob fights its way out from the depths of his body, ravaging James from the inside out. All he can do is hide his face in shame and cry until his shoulders are shaking, his lips are trembling with half-formed words of ridicule, his chest is squeezing. Take a breath in, then out. In, out. In, out, in out in out _inoutintout_ until he’s losing control of everything and his heart beats fast and his breaths are too loud and too difficult and he’s nauseous and lightheaded and weak and desperate all at once and he’d do anything, _anything_ to make it stop and he’s gonna die right now and _he can’t breathe_.

A creak from the door. James flinches with his entire body. Are they going in or out? Is he breathing in or out? James doesn’t know the difference. They must think he’s crazy, hysterically sobbing because a waiter humiliated him in front of everyone and—

It’s Thomas Jefferson. James’ body releases an ugly half-whimper, half-cry at the sight and he curls further into himself in a futile attempt to hide how _broken_ he is to the man, how messed up he must be to be afraid of _people,_ of all things.

Jefferson huffs a laugh of disbelief, but there’s something lost in the set of his eyes, something almost hysterical to match what James feels. Wide eyes poke holes in any facade James may have managed to uphold otherwise, relinquishing the last of his vanishing control.

“Mr. Madison?” Jefferson almost whispers, horrified.

If James could laugh right now, he would. He doesn’t deserve that title. “I—I— _No_ ,” he gasps between blubbering, incoherent nonsense, because right now he’s gasping to stay alive and if he stops, he fears he’ll drop dead.

Jefferson looks afraid. “James, then,” he corrects softly and kneels down next to James, flailing his hands as if he doesn’t know where to put them.

James wishes he could just shrink down until he disappears, leaving no trace of his graceless, mortifying existence. Now he’s caused Jefferson trouble, breaking down at a _business meeting_ of all things. God, he’s so weak and annoying and pathetic and terrible and—his mind freezes, because oh god now Jefferson is touching him.

The sensation of touch washes over his shoulders like an ocean wave over sand, cold on the burning skin of his neck at first, but melting into something gentle and comfortable as large hands begin kneading the tense muscles there. James relaxes just a tiny smidge, letting out an inaudible sigh which intercepts his panic for one calm moment.

“Shh,” Jefferson consoles, “It’s alright. I got rid of him for you. I told him I took your drink over. No need to worry. Nobody thinks you’re crazy. You’re just afraid, and that’s alright. It’s alright.”

His voice is impossibly warm and forgiving. It’s gone low in a way it hadn’t before, and James feels some of the tension which had been gripping him in an iron-tight hold release him. What replaces it is hot, painful embarrassment flooding his face, his neck, his ears. He can’t help but feel exposed and belittled in the worst possible way. Now Jefferson knows there’s something wrong with him.

From the moment James had first been booted off to preschool, clinging to his mother’s skirt and intermittently coughing and crying, he’s been “the quiet kid.” The kid who sits in the corner and pretends not to care about anyone else; the kid who stumbles on his words and trails off when talking to his teacher; the kid who cries when someone asks him if he wants to play, too—he was that kid. And he’s never quite been able to overcome that feeling of inferiority.

And now look where it’s gotten him. James fears he’ll never change. He’ll always lean on his few friends in public, hoping nobody dares to look him in the eye. He’ll always rush to hide from the old woman eyeing the butter in the grocery aisle. He fears he’ll always lack a significant other. Hell, James has never been able to make friends on his own; how can he expect to find a _lover?_

James fears he’ll never be able to run away from the one thing he wants to escape from.

Himself.

Jefferson is running calming circles down his back, but now that the fear has been replaced by a dull sense of self-hatred, James finds that it doesn’t do any good. He uncovers his head and instead leans it on his knees.

After a moment, the massage comes to an abrupt halt. James immediately misses the comfort it brought and gathers the courage to face Jefferson, an action he soon regrets.

His face isn’t cocky, or arrogant, or lost or suspicious or any of the things James has come to recognize as distinctly _Jefferson_. Instead, Jefferson’s mouth is open and gaping, and his eyebrows are turned up in worry. James realizes this with a soft pang in his chest. Why? Why would a man with such a brilliant ability to be confident and smooth and all the things James isn’t even _care_ whether James knows he’s a useless waste of space?

But then Jefferson extends one of his large, powerful hands and rubs carefully at the outer edge of James’ eye in an intimate gesture. The skin there feels raw and exposed, just like the rest of him. When he pulls his hand back, there’s a lone drop of liquid hanging from his fingers, and oh, James realizes with a jolt, he’s crying.

Not like before and not for the same reasons, but the steady trail of tears nonetheless runs down his cheeks like a leaky faucet. Perhaps the most surprising thing, even to James himself, though, is that he’s completely silent this time, every word he could possibly use to sum up his misery eliminated from his vocabulary and replaced with only the crushing feeling that comes with the knowledge of his utter lack of control.

Jefferson is looking between James and his hand as though he hadn’t meant to do that in the first place. He looks hopelessly confused, and it pains James to see Jefferson this way and know that he was the one to cause it. So he speaks.

“Why am I like this?” James pleads thickly. Words do not make a graceful return.

Jefferson seems to snap out of his stupor. “I—James, I don’t know. I don’t have the answer.” He seems troubled by this fact.

James gives an empty chuckle and nods, resting his shoulders against the grimy tiles on the wall. He finds that every ounce of energy which had previously been threatening to shake him apart has now escaped him, leaving James with only Jefferson as company. He finds that he doesn’t mind. James doesn’t have it within himself to be worried about what Jefferson thinks of him anymore, not after what just happened.

“I don’t blame you,” James assures him. “I—I’ve never seen anyone like me before.”

Jefferson settles himself next to James, mirroring his position on the ground. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jefferson murmurs, though it rings loud in the echo chamber of the bathroom which had so cruelly magnified his cries of despair.

“How could it not be?” James replies, finding himself on the edge of crying yet again. God, what is _wrong_ with him today? “I mean, all you know about me is that I’m a nervous wreck around people, I live alone with my cat, and I just ran into a bathroom so no one would see me crying. What reason do you have to think those things make me a good person?” James smiles bitterly at the ground. Now Jefferson will surely leave him to drown alone in his own tears.

But Jefferson just scoffs and bites back, “What happened just now? That was something you couldn’t control, and I’m not gonna choose to blame you for your body’s instinctive reactions which you had no control over.”

James feels tears well up in his eyes because he knows Jefferson is wrong. “But my mind—sorry, my mind did it too. _I_ chose to run away. Like a coward. I always run.”

Jefferson turns his head to meet James’ eyes, and James finds himself transfixed by the sheer amount of intelligence in Jefferson’s warm brown ones. “But James—your mind tells you to run, so you listen. My mind doesn’t do that. Imagine if I were faced with a big, scary pitbull. I would run away. Your mind says that the waiter is the pitbull.”

“But _why me?_ ” James cries, knowing Jefferson is right but not understanding why he’s the one who has to bear the burden of carrying this curse with him.

Jefferson shrugs helplessly, the well of his apparent wisdom seemingly drying up. “I don’t know. All I’m saying is, don’t blame yourself for something you can’t help. And for the record, I still think you’re a good person. You’ve done nothing to change that.”

“Why?” James asks selfishly. He knows he shouldn’t, but he’s dying to know what a virtual stranger(?) could possibly find that’s good about him.

“Well, for one, you disagree with Alexander Hamilton,” Jefferson jokes, and James can’t help but chuckle a little despite how wrong it feels in his dry throat, “and for another, I admire how honest you are.”

“What?”

Jefferson coughs awkwardly. “You wouldn’t be here, trusting me with your issues, if you weren’t. Thank you for that, by the way,” he adds, smiling.

James isn’t sure how to respond. “It’s no problem. I usually can’t talk to anyone, so. This is a first.” James traces the indent of his shoe with his finger, taking a deep breath to prepare for what he’s about to say. “Thank you, Thomas.”

And Thomas smiles, weary but bright. It looks like he just weathered a storm, and James has to wonder if he looks that way, too. “It’s no problem, none at all,” Thomas claims, eyes alight as he sighs in relief. “Now, what do you say we leave this place?”

James nods eagerly. After all, someone might walk in and see the two of them sitting on the ground and smiling at each other like idiots at any moment now. He wonders if the noises of his crying had kept them away.

Thomas helps him up, and together, the two exit the bathroom. Leaving the cafe itself is no small feat, but James tries to keep his head down and follow Thomas like a duck to its mother in order to avoid any more incidents.

James bursts out the door with a sigh of relief. It’s still as dreary as before, but it’s nice. Claustrophobic in a good way, yet still somehow freeing. Thomas stares at the sky with half-lidded eyes, searching for something James can’t see. Finally, he says, “I think a storm’s coming.”

James looks up, too. The heavy clouds cast a thick shadow as far as the eye can see, but it’s not yet raining. Thunder rolls, a distant but persistent reminder that rainy New York weather in the spring is something to be reckoned with.

Thomas considers James for a moment. “Want me to drive you home? I read somewhere that cars are resistant to lightning,” he offers.

James blushes, secretly somewhat pleased by the offer, but shakes his head no. “I don’t want to cause you any more trouble,” he says under his breath, but Thomas must hear him anyway because his gaze hardens, and he puts a hand on James’ shoulder.

“It would be no trouble at all. In fact, I think I want you there. That is, if you want a ride,” Thomas says flippantly, turning his nose up as if to say that he doesn’t mind either way.

James smiles at the ground. “Okay.”

Thomas grins wide and pulls him into a sleek red Lexus James hadn’t noticed before. James isn’t sure whether the weather is cruel or merciful for this, but the first drops of rain hit as soon as the two slam the car doors shut. Thomas starts the engine and turns on the windshield wipers to wash away the wetness on the window, but more and more rain drums in heavy sheets across it, and that’s when James starts to feel glad he accepted the ride.

Windshield wipers sweeping at max speeds, Thomas briefly levels a playful glare at the sky and starts driving.

“Do you remember where I live?” James questions, trying to speak over the rain and failing. His voice is naturally quiet, much to his chagrin a lot of the time.

Thomas shouts back, “Yeah—on the corner of Madison and Evergreen, right?”

James thinks he sees Thomas smirk a bit at that. He supposes it is quite a coincidence. “Yup.”

With that, James is carted home and, upon leaving the car, lifts one hand in farewell (Thomas wouldn’t be able to hear him if he were to say anything, anyway). In reply, Thomas smirks and gives him a two-fingered salute before speeding off and very narrowly missing spraying James with puddled rainwater.

James shrugs and smiles before heading inside to greet Nelly. It’s been a long day, and James has a date with a cup of tea and a warm bath.

Little does he know that as Thomas is navigating the rain-slicked streets in his fancy car, he’s wearing a worried frown that just won’t seem to disappear.

(Cont.)

Six hours later, James is curled up in bed with a book. A crisp, hardcover, voluminous, _real_ book. _Crime and Punishment_. He can and will read on a kindle, too, but he finds the most satisfaction in the feeling of flipping a page, eyes traveling smoothly from the last word on one page to the opening phrase on the next.

The rain is still pattering away at the window, but by now it’s calmed down to a lull and only serves to make James sleepier. Having a full-blown freakout like the one earlier takes a lot of energy, and James doesn’t have a lot of that in the first place, so he’s basically that warning you get on your phone to tell you it’s almost dead. Yeah.

Speak (or, think) of the devil. James’ phone gives off its generic ringtone, startling him out of his peaceful mood. He scrambles uselessly for a second while wondering if the person calling will be mad if he just _doesn’t answer_ before deciding that yes, they will be, and reluctantly pries open the phone and hits the answer key.

James is relieved to hear Angelica’s muffled voice and not one of a telemarketer or, worse, somebody who’s called the wrong number. 

“James? Hi,” she greets.

“Hello,” James returns stiffly. For some reason, he’s never been able to bring himself to say “hi,” a crutch which honestly baffles him.

Angelica pays no mind to his awkward start. “I was wondering if you wanted to come have a night out with my sisters and me? We’re also inviting Alexander, John Adams, John Laurens, Lafayette, Hercules, Maria Reynolds—”

With every additional person Angelica names, whether he likes them or not, James feels his stomach clench a little tighter. He interrupts. “Yeah, um, sorry, I have plans already, so, yeah—sorry?” James attempts to lie.

The line goes quiet for a few seconds. Finally, Angelica says in a hushed tone, “With who?”

James isn’t sure whether he should be offended at the insinuation that he doesn’t have much of a social life or resigned because it’s true. “I, um, my parents?”

That lie was so transparent that James thinks it might have ascended to the fourth dimension.

“ _James_ ,” comes the exasperated groan of his friend.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t right now,” James whines, voice shrill.

A sigh. “Okay,” she finally relents, “not tonight. How about instead, you come over to our house for dinner tomorrow? Just Peggy, Eliza, and me? Peggy has something she’s been _dying_ to show you,” Angelica begs. James loathes to think she’s doing it out of pity, but he can’t help fearing it anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” James gives in. He doesn’t want her to think he’s so weak-willed that he can’t even go to someone’s house for dinner, and besides, they have private chefs. _Private_. _Chefs_.

The food is always delicious.

“Great! See you at six!” Angelica declares, satisfied, and hangs up the phone.

James collapses into bed in exhaustion. Deciding to put the book down for the night (it’s long and kind of creepy, anyway), he turns out the lamplight and ruminates over the day.

Nighttime is when he regrets.

First, he regrets letting Thomas Jefferson see him at his worst, fearful and vulnerable and _weak_.

Second, he regrets not hanging around the register to collect his drink himself, what caused the whole ordeal in the first place.

Third, he regrets disappointing Angelica by saying he can’t go drinking.

And that’s the full list for today. It’s not too bad this time, James thinks as he turns over and tries to quiet the harsh voices in his head.

Eventually, they listen, and his mind is dragged into the abyss of sleep.

(Cont.)

Thomas leans against the wall, watching his friends dance with a certain level of amusement which comes with being the only experienced dancer in the room. Well, only in French dancing, but still. His limbs are fraught with exhaustion from having been on the floor for a couple hours now, and Thomas doesn’t bother to hide it as he tries in vain to shake the muscle pain out of his shoulders. He hates to say it, but he’s too old for this.

When he turns his head, Angelica is next to him. She doesn’t appear to have noticed his presence, but she looks almost as tired as he is, sagging her shoulders but watching the dancefloor proudly. She orchestrated the whole event, after all. Thomas taps her on the arm and she looks at him curiously. 

“I thought you said you’d invite James?” He half-says, half-yells. It’s really only a conversation starter; whereas people like him and Angelica thrive on company, James most definitely does not. It would be akin to suicide to show up at this place alone.

She shrugs. “I tried, but he made up an excuse,” she replies, leaning in so he can hear her better. “But he’s coming to our house for dinner tomorrow. I think he’s just an introvert, you know.”

Thomas frowns. “I don’t know, I think it’s more than that?” he suggests, framing it as a question.

Angelica scowls. “How would you know? How long have you known him?” she accuses.

Thomas wants to say, “Long enough to see there’s a problem,” but he knows that wouldn’t go over well. Instead, he just says, “I don’t know. I guess that’s true,” trying to avoid outright agreeing with Angelica.

Angelica snorts and turns back to watch the party again. Studying her face more closely, Thomas realizes that she’s in denial. Her lips are pursed, her jaw is clenched, her eyes are narrowed. She’s known James for years, as she puts it, and hasn’t noticed anything odd about his behaviour? Hell, Thomas has known James for, what, a week, and he’s already seen James in full-blown panic mode. Angelica must have seen it, too, unless James had somehow managed to hide it from her but not from Thomas. No, that’s impossible. She’d basically admitted James is bad with people when they’d gone drinking before. 

Thomas decides not to provoke Angelica (better known as a beast lying in wait) further and simply scoffs and walks away, ignoring her for the rest of the night. She probably doesn’t notice anyway, but it’s worth the effort.

James is _not_ “just an introvert,” and Thomas is going to prove it.

(Cont.)

Eliza awakens to the sound of her phone ringing when the morning is still new and the sky still shines pink light over darkened fields of grass. The air has the fresh scent which comes with the aftereffects of rain. She had spent the previous evening with her sisters, poking fun at them and admiring the way the streetlights were reflected on the shining, wet roads intermittently. After that had been the party, and, well, it was frankly tiring. Fun, but tiring. Eliza likes parties, sure, but it takes time for her to reload after a night out, and she prefers to spend the next day in peace. No rules against phone calls, though. She stretches, welcoming the morning with a heavy yawn, and accepts the call without looking at the number first.

“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”

The voice is gravelly and alert, and she knows immediately who it belongs to. “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Jefferson,” she replies, wondering what reason he has for calling her. They’re not quite friends, but rather acquaintances close enough to have each other’s numbers (mostly in case of emergencies). Honestly, Eliza has no idea why her sister seems to hate him so much. He’s perfectly polite.

“I bet you’re probably wondering why I’ve called.”

Eliza nods absentmindedly, forgetting he can’t see her. Jefferson continues anyway. “I was just wondering—how about I come over for dinner tonight? It’s been so long since we’ve properly seen each other. I could bring food, if you like? Macaroni?”

Now, Jefferson may be good at manipulating people, but Eliza’s not dumb. Asking to have dinner for no reason other than “we haven’t seen each other in so long” is just not what Jefferson does. He’s confident and intelligent enough to get his way, but there’s no chance he doesn’t have an ulterior motive.

Nonetheless, Eliza is in a good mood and decides to tease him a bit. She lets out a fake gasp and exclaims, “Why, Mr. Jefferson, it’s _rude_ to invite yourself over to someone else’s house!”

A pause, within which Eliza silently snickers to herself. Eventually, Jefferson speaks. “I know, but it’s just, I figured—oh, to hell with it.”

There’s jostling on the other end of the line. Now Eliza is curious. What secret is Jefferson so desperate to keep? A moment later, his voice returns. “Sorry about that,” he mutters. “I haven’t been honest about this. I—can I be frank with you, Eliza?”

“Yes, of course,” Eliza says, breathless with anticipation.

“James Madison is coming to your house for dinner tonight, right?” Jefferson sounds strained, like he really doesn’t want to have to talk about this.

If there had been plans, certainly no one had told her of them. “I didn’t think so,” she replies.

A discontented “hm.” Then Jefferson says, “Well, that’s what I heard from Angelica. She said he’d be coming over to yours tonight. Also—” a pause, “she has a certain misconception about him that I just want to clear up.”

Eliza makes an understanding noise, though she doesn’t really understand. “About what?”

Jefferson sounds pained when he answers. “It’s—complicated. He needs help, and she won’t accept that he needs help, and so he isn’t getting the help he needs. I—I don’t think he talks to very many people.”

Now this is _very_ interesting. What’s Jefferson trying to hide? “What kind of help? Medical? Is he sick again?” she asks, trying to sound concerned.

“No, nothing like that. You just—you know how he’s shy?”

Eliza knows that fact well. The first time James had been to the Schuyler household, he’d taken one look at her, she’d said hi, and he’d immediately excused himself to the bathroom, practically running out the door on the left. The bathroom was in the other direction. James had come back a few minutes later, disheveled and out of breath. She’d never asked.

“Yeah?”

“Well,” Jefferson drawls, “I think maybe he’s _too_ shy. And something needs to be done about it. He can’t live his life like this.”

Eliza hums in comprehension. Now, this might sound mean, but—“How do you know? Aren’t you just his editor?”

Eliza almost regrets asking when Jefferson falls silent for nearly ten seconds. “You’re right,” Jefferson finally says, quietly. “But he needs _help_ , you have to trust me. He—he’s afraid of _people_ , it must be so difficult—”

For once, no trace of sarcasm or falseness laces Jefferson’s voice. He sounds completely earnest and helpless, and Eliza feels compelled to help him. She doesn’t know James that well, and she’s willing to bet that neither does Jefferson, but she doesn’t think she’d be very happy if she felt the need to run every time she encountered a stranger. And that’s what James does. Every time. Without fail.

So she holds the phone tighter, takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay. Be here at six. I’ll try to get Angelica to let you in.”

A sigh of relief, followed by tired laughter. “Thank you, Eliza. You’re a saint,” he decrees, and hangs up the phone.

Eliza lets her phone drop on the bedsheets, tangled up in a mess. Bouncing off her bed, she looks through her wardrobe to find a dress that says “Pretty please?” and a hair ribbon to match it. She has a lot of work to do today; Angelica is a tough nut to crack.

(Cont.)

In her only pink dress, one with laces and ribbons and filled with innocence, Eliza bounds up to her sister. She made sure her eyes were glowing and hair was tied back beforehand, and she hopes it’ll pay off now. “Angelica,” she calls, “good morning!”

Angelica smiles heartily. “Morning, sis,” she replies. Angelica has a soft spot for family, and Eliza knows it and is using it to her advantage.

Eliza looks down suddenly, as if to be shy, and pokes her index fingers together. “Hey, I was wondering about something.”

“What is it?” Angelica asks.

Eliza hesitates. This is the critical moment. If she fails now, she might not be able to convince her sister at all. “Are we having a dinner party tonight?” Eliza probes, deciding to put the most important question off for a bit.

Angelica’s confusion turns to understanding. “Oh, yes. With James. I wanted to make up for him missing the party last night.”

She furrows her brows. “Wait. How did you know? I never told you,” she presses, narrowing her eyes.

Eliza internally panics for a second. “I, um, I got a call from his editor.”

Well, looks like she’ll just have to wing it now. “Thomas Jefferson? He’s worried about James’ book, but James won’t see him, you know how he is around new people. He wanted to see if he could come over for dinner tonight, too?” Eliza really hopes her sister isn’t onto her. Angelica can be shockingly perceptive at times.

Angelica stays stock still, thinking, for three terrifying seconds. Then all the air seems to leave her at once and she relents. “Okay, sure. Tell Jefferson he can come, too. But, for god’s sake, tell him not to bring the macaroni,” Angelica says, eyes distant like she’s reliving a bad memory.

Just delighted that Angelica gave in and that she suspects nothing, though, Eliza nods excitably and gallops away, deciding not to test her luck further.

“You’re in!” she squeals to Jefferson when he answers the phone. This is the most excitement she’s had in months.

“Oh, good,” Jefferson responds. “I think, no, I _know_ I wouldn’t be able to convince her myself. You’ve been invaluable, Eliza.”

Eliza giggles. “Just make sure it’s worth it tonight,” she warns, “or all my hard work will be for nothing.”

A scoff. “Oh, please. All you have to do is bat your eyes and Angelica gives you what you want. Still, I appreciate the help. See you tonight, Eliza,” Jefferson says, and hangs up.

It’s only after she’s done riding the high of being called “invaluable” that she realizes she forgot to tell Jefferson not to bring his macaroni. Oh well.

(Cont.)

James gets a call at five, an hour before the Schuyler Dinner Party (or so he’d dubbed it). It’s from Thomas Jefferson. James _really_ hopes it isn’t for another coffee shop outing. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look at a Starbucks again, let alone visit one. Still, something flips in his stomach when he sees the caller ID, and it’s not unpleasant. It feels warm, almost—happy. Which is odd, right? It’s odd to be happy when you get a call from the person who edits your book and witnessed you crying in a restroom.

James tries to disregard the feeling for now and flips open the phone with sweaty hands. “Hello?”

“Hey, James. It’s Thomas. You’re going to the Schuyler household in an hour, right? Care for me to give you a ride?” offers Thomas when the phone clicks on.

“They invited you, too?” James asks, confused. Hadn’t Angelica said it would be just her and her sisters?

“Yeah, well, it was kinda last-minute. But yeah. So, do you need a ride?” Thomas asks, sounding almost nervous. It’s uncharacteristic of him, and James doesn’t know whether or not he should be worried.

“Um, sure. If you want to. You know. Pick me up,” James stutters.

Thomas chuckles warmly. “I’d love to.” James feels his face go red, and for once it’s not because of his awkwardness.

“See you in forty-five minutes, then?” Thomas asks. James confirms and they say their goodbyes.

After he hangs up, James abruptly drops the phone and puts a hand to his chest. It’s beating like crazy. His stomach feels like it’s dropping, his head feels lighter than usual, there’s sweat on his brow, there’s a slight tremble in his hands. But that’s a normal reaction to talking to people for James. What’s odd is that it feels almost—good? Good nervousness, like James is running a marathon and the finish line is fifteen feet away. And he’s warm, too, in the dizzy kind of way James feels when he wins an argument (he did debate in high school—the other kids were shocked, as if they hadn’t even known he could talk).

And somehow, it’s entirely related to Jefferson.

Deep down, James knows what these feelings are—he can’t kid himself, he’s felt this before—but that’s exactly why he has to ignore them. Thomas already knows his fatal flaw, but if he were to find out that James is gay, too—that might be the final straw.

With these thoughts rushing through his head as he shrugs on a checkered shirt and a pleated pair of pants, James nervously awaits the time Thomas is set to pick him up.

(Cont.)

It’s about time. The red Lexus pulls into James’ driveway. This is it, he thinks, it’s time to go. James straightens his shirt and tries for the last time (of many) to flatten his hair, wondering if he should act formal or not.

As James opens the passenger door, he’s disconcerted to find that a large, white bowl has already taken his seat in front. “Sorry,” Thomas says, not really sounding sorry at all, “that seat is taken.”

“By—what is that?” James asks, staring at the innocuous-looking container.

Thomas smirks. “I promised I’d bring food over. This is just what I had on hand at the time,” he purrs.

James stops staring at the bowl long enough to send Thomas a panicked expression. “We had to bring food? Oh, god, what will I tell them?” Why didn’t he think of that earlier? They might kick him out for not bringing any food, and Angelica will never talk to him again and he won’t have any friends—

“No, no, I just brought this because I wasn’t officially invited,” Thomas corrects him.

James cocks his head, calming down for the time being. “You weren’t… invited?”

“Not by Angelica,” Thomas admits. He’s trying to pull off a casual pose and failing, by the looks of it. “Eliza said I could come. But I had to ask.”

“Why did you ask?”

A frustrated whine from the back of Thomas’ throat. He avoids James’ gaze, lips curled down in an apologetic frown. “Don’t be mad, James—”

“Why would I be mad?”

“—but I need to tell Angelica something important. Here, just—there.” Thomas takes the gigantic bowl and sets it in the back seat. James doesn’t know why it was up there in the first place, if he knew he was coming to pick James up.

Nonetheless, James takes a seat in the car, fixing expectant eyes on Thomas. He finds that he can comfortably make eye contact with his editor now. Maybe it has something to do with Thomas having already seen him in his most vulnerable state, and so James doesn’t feel the need to hide himself anymore. Maybe it’s because Thomas’ eyes are dark brown and have such an intricate pattern that they’re hard to look away from. Either way, it’s refreshing, and James is planning on making full use of his newfound ability.

The eyes James is looking into turn concerned. Thomas moves his hand slowly over James’, and, instead of freaking out, James only feels worried. Did something upsetting happen? Did James cause it?

“Jemmy,” he says desperately, causing James to suddenly feel both suffocatingly hot and very, very sad, “you—you have a problem. Isn’t life hard, the way it is for you?”

There are plenty of things James could say right now. He could ask what this has to do with Thomas wanting to tell Angelica something important. He could point out that life is hard for literally everyone, not just a middle-class man with a cat and a problem. He could deny everything, deny that day at the coffee shop, pretend he didn’t have a meltdown. He could even slam the car door shut and run away crying (probably the most tempting option). But James is not about to let himself run away from Thomas for a second time. Instead, he gazes straight into those alluring brown eyes and tells the truth.

“Yeah. No shit,” James says lowly and chuckles, feeling strangely bold, “how do you think it feels to just _not eat_ because I don’t want to wait in line while the cashier at HyVee counts my change for me?”

The resolve in Thomas’ face only strengthens, his mouth pursing and his eyebrows falling into a straight line with one another. “Then ask for help. Ask one of your friends to come with you to the store sometime, or, or confide in them when you feel nervous. Hell, you can even talk to me. Just, please. Don’t hold everything in,” Thomas begs.

He looks completely earnest, but no, he has to be wrong, he can’t be right. Everyone would be annoyed because he’d be using them, and—“I don’t want to be a burden,” James cries softly, voice cracking in the middle, only realizing the truth of the words as they send a shudder of anxiety through him, from the hair on his head to the tips of his toes. James is not afraid of heights or spiders or thunder or needles. He’s not even afraid of _people,_ believe it or not. Instead, his fear is making everyone around him despise him for being needy, poor, pathetic, little _James_.

Thomas seems to realize this, too, because he melts a little and says, “Oh, come here,” drawing James into the warmest, fullest, and most genuine hug he’s had in years.

The last time James remembers a hug feeling this natural, his mother was sending him off to college with a small smile and a trail of tears running down her loving face. It’s a sad memory, leaving his mother for new and exciting things, but at the same time, it’s comforting to think that James will always have a home somewhere.

As he slowly closes his eyes to relish in the warmth of the embrace and the evergreen scent of Thomas’ cologne, James thinks he may have found a little piece of home right here.

Eventually, they part. Thomas keeps his head down, but his shoulders hitch every now and then. James sees a lone drop of water fall to the ground and realizes, with a shock, that Thomas is crying for _him_. “I,” Thomas blubbers eventually, voice thick in his throat, “I just want you to be _happy_. That day in the bathroom, you just looked so _sad_ so I just—you’re so _miserable_ and I don’t know why no one has the answer, I just—you don’t deserve this, no one does.”

James smiles sadly, cupping Thomas’ face with one hand and wiping away a tear with his thumb. “I know,” he whispers, “I know. But that’s just how it is. There’s no helping it. I can’t control it. I’m sorry. I know, it’s okay.”

In a sudden burst of passion, Thomas shouts, “It’s _not_ okay!” And James doesn’t argue, just lets the man cry and pats his back. At some point, Thomas probably mutters an apology, but James pays no mind to it. He’s just glad that Thomas cares enough to get angry for him.

Eventually, Thomas manages to pull himself together enough to drive again and they decide to start their (late) drive to the Schuyler household. An agreeable silence settles over them, with the exception of soft hiccups coming from Thomas every once in a while. “So…” James ventures, looking for some conversation which is maybe less emotionally charged than whatever _that_ just was.

“What’s in that bowl you’re bringing?”

The awkwardness of the question is worth it to see a smile light up Thomas’ face, a little stilted but genuine nonetheless. “Why, it’s only the best food in the entirety of the world,” Thomas teases.

“You mean ice cream, right? Please tell me it’s ice cream,” James guesses, somehow doubting the notion, what with how long it’s been sitting out. But still. There’s nothing better than some classic vanilla ice cream.

Thomas looks almost offended. “No, it’s macaroni and cheese! I made it myself; the machine was imported from _France_ ,” he claims, as if that somehow makes the food (which is _not ice cream_ ) automatically better.

“So?” James apparently has the ignorance to ask.

“So? _So?_ Macaroni and cheese is a sophisticated meal eaten only by the fiercest of men. It’s revered throughout France as a brilliant work of art,” Thomas declares, gesticulating wildly with one hand and driving with the other. His face is animated and his cheeks are rosy, maybe from crying or maybe from the thought of macaroni and cheese. It’s anyone’s guess.

“What are you, in love with France?” James says and scoffs. “Elitist.”

Thomas wrinkles a brow in confusion. “Who _wouldn’t_ be in love with France? I’ll have you know I spent six months there as a transfer student in college, and it was amazing. The little shops, the amazing food, the polluted air—what’s not to love?”

“You just mentioned it yourself,” James mumbles under his breath.

Before Thomas can respond, they reach the Schuyler’s house. It’s large and beautiful, with the glass windows that twist and turn so that light weaves in and out, the meadow in the front yard that’s dotted by rare blue flowers, the perfectly-trimmed bushes sitting symmetrically across the walkway. James has been here many times before and has always taken a moment to appreciate it. He most admires the house at sunset, when the blinding orange light peeks right over the roof of the house, causing it to downright _burn_. It’s the Schuyler sisters’ house, all right.

Thomas traipses up to the doorway easily, macaroni bowl in hand, and knocks once he leaves the car, not even noticing the scenery. James trails behind him, in awe of it. They wait for a few nervous seconds where James begins wondering if they came too early, or too late, or maybe it was tomorrow instead.

While he’s worrying about this, Peggy answers the door. She’s the youngest of the three sisters, still in her late teens. Peggy is bright and cheerful, but not too mature, often wearing clothes with varying shades of yellow. For these reasons, James became comfortable around her quickly.

He grins at Peggy as she waves to the two and says, in her peppy voice, “Hey guys! Dinner’s not quite ready yet, but you can come in and kick back for a little while until it’s done! Eliza’s doing the cooking, but I’ve been helping out lately.”

Thomas chuckles. “I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

Peggy lets them in and the three situate on the couch in the Schuyler living room. There’s an old grandfather clock in the corner and art on the walls, giving the room an elegant but homely look which James adores. “How often have you been here?” Thomas asks, crossing his legs comfortably. He looks right at home here, despite how fancy the house is.

James thinks for a second and answers, “Not sure. It used to be a tradition to come over on Sundays, but schedules changed and now it’s all over the place.”

Thomas nods. “Well, things like that happen. I’ve only been here twice for business meetings with Angelica,” he recalls. “You two must be good friends.”

James is about to respond in embarrassment when Peggy chimes in. She has a bored look on her face and her knee is bouncing. “Jeez, you guys are so dull, always talking about boring stuff like that. Don’t you want to know what’s for dinner?”

Thomas mutters something like “oh, right” and lifts his bowl like an offering. “I brought some mac and cheese?”

Peggy groans. “Only you, TJ. Only you.”

Heaving a sigh and sagging his shoulders, Thomas leans back dramatically against the couch. Taking pity on him, James says, “I’m sure it’s delicious. I’ll try some, if you like?”

Eyes shining, Thomas sits up and takes James’ hands. “You would do that?” he asks, as if he’s never heard someone be so kind.

James nods insistently, leaning back a smidge. The power of this man’s smile sends a flurry of something through him. Through the white noise of James’ own feelings, he distantly hears Peggy giggle.

“He _loves_ macaroni. I think, secretly, it’s all he eats.”

They go on talking and (in Peggy’s case) making fun of Thomas for a few more minutes. Peggy shows him a meme that’s just “ _so_ funny,” which turns out to be a cat in a suit meowing along to the tune of _We’ll Meet again_.

Eventually, a bell sounds and Eliza calls out, “Dinner’s ready!”

It really is amazing, James thinks, staring down at what turns out to be the classic American meal of steak and eggs. As he eats, he savors the salty flavor of the eggs that work in combination with juicy, rare steak. 

“You’re a great cook, Eliza,” James declares with feeling. Eliza beams at the compliment.

Angelica appears to be in a bad mood, having suddenly appeared at the beginning of dinner, though James suspects she’s just jealous of Eliza’s superior cooking skills. James had once tried her cooking. He’d been bedridden for three days.

Jealous or not, Angelica is silent as she viciously chews her food. When Thomas tries to offer her some macaroni, she glares at him with the fire of a thousand suns. James wouldn’t touch her right now with an extended pole, and it’s not just because he’s shy.

Thomas, however, seems to have no such qualms. After ten minutes of everyone gathered around the table chewing silently and sneaking distressed and/or amused glances at Angelica, he decides to break the tension with the worst conversation starter possible.

“ _Sooooo…_ wanna tell me why you’re denying reality?”

Well shit. If this was what Thomas has been wanting to tell Angelica, he wants nothing to do with it.

Angelica’s hand grips at her silverware (and, yes, her knife) until her knuckles turn white. James is almost afraid for Thomas’ life. On his grave will be written “provoked the beast. Killed in retribution for his idiocy.”

“Thomas, now is _not_ the time for you to try me—”

“Oh, I think it is, Miss Priss,” Thomas interrupts, now truly angry himself for some reason, “because I can’t for the life of me understand why you deny your friends help because you can’t acknowledge they need any.”

Angelica is the first to stand up, closely followed by Thomas. He’s never been one to be outdone, after all.

She narrows her eyes. “I didn’t let Eliza convince me to invite you into my home, _Mr. Jefferson_ , so that you could confront me on something you know nothing about.”

“Oh really? ‘Cause I don’t know what universe you’ve been living in for the past few years, but I’ve already seen far too much of the thing I supposedly know nothing about.”

Angelica takes a step back, confused. Everyone else has been watching tensely. Poor Eliza looks devastated. Peggy just looks scared. And James is too afraid to assume he knows what this is about without confirmation.

“What do you mean?” Angelica wonders aloud, anger fading for a moment.

Thomas runs his hand through his hair in frustration. He looks like he wants to say something, but might regret it afterwards. “James—he had a panic attack in a _bathroom_. Because an employee thought he did something.”

The confession feels like a punch to the gut. James can feel his face burn in humiliation as Peggy and Eliza turn to him with twin expressions of shock. Angelica is looking at him, too, but she just looks sick. Everything he’s been trying to hide, summed up in two humiliating words. _Panic attack_. Such a broken thing to have. How weak. How _dumb_. James clutches his head as it suddenly starts to throb hotly and his breaths shallow. He _knows_ why Thomas said it, he really does. All Thomas wants is for Angelica to help him get better, to help him overcome this… this demon. But knowing that _this_ is what Thomas thinks of him, that James has a problem (even though he knows deep down that he does) is what hurts the most. _Panic attack._

Angelica is still staring at him. “Is—is it true?” she finally whimpers, because James, contrary to Thomas’ belief that it would be obvious to anyone near him, has always been good at hiding it. Plenty of people think he’s shy, or cold, or just an introvert. It’s easy to duck into a closet when he gets overwhelmed by the paranoid feeling that everyone is staring at him all the time. He’s usually a silent crier when he hasn’t completely let go, like he did in the coffee shop.

James breaks eye contact with her, and after years of friendship, it’s all Angelica needs in order to deduce the truth. She gasps.

Meanwhile, Thomas looks lost. “You mean she’s never seen one?” he muses, partly to himself, but loud enough so everyone can hear.

“I never let her,” James admits. His voice sounds rough and broken.

Understanding dawns on Thomas’ face, and he collapses into his seat, anger forgotten. “I—I didn’t know that, I’m sorry, Angelica—”

“Stop.” Angelica holds out a hand to silence him, effectively cutting Thomas off. Her eyes never leave James. He can feel himself instinctively retreating inward, trying to will her eyes away. He feels unbearably self-conscious.

“Why, James? Why did you hide it? Don’t you trust me?” Angelica pleads him, open and sincere.

James shrugs helplessly. “I don’t really think of it as a big deal,” he tries.

Surprisingly, Thomas is the first one to react. “Don’t you deny this, Jemmy,” he growls, “this is not a weakness, nor is it a choice. It’s a disease, can’t you see that? Like a cyst. It needs treatment or it’ll destroy you!”

James goes pale as he realizes the truth of those words. “Well, what do you recommend I do?” he shouts back, desperate for an answer.

“The first step is to acknowledge it.”

Stunned into silence, James exhales a shaky sigh and nods fervently, staring fixedly at the table. He feels—well, he doesn’t know how he feels. Perhaps ironically, he’s numb from too much emotion, like that feeling you get when you’ve just run a mile and now all you want is some gatorade and a warm bath and to never do anything ever again.

Angelica is picking at her food with a newfound glint of determination in her eyes. For what, James can’t be bothered to ask. Eliza and Peggy are looking between Thomas and James in the somewhat detached sense you get when thrown in an argument you have nothing to do with. Eliza does seem a little smug, though, for whatever reason.

It’s Eliza who finally stands. “Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Madison, it’s been a wonderful evening,” she lies, “but I’m afraid it’s getting late, and we don’t want you two trying to navigate New York traffic in the dark. Come now, I’ll walk you to the door.”

With that, Thomas and James stumble after Eliza in a state of emotional whiplash, incredulous at her composure. James had had no idea there could be someone so civil before he’d met Eliza. She really is wonderful. Cementing this belief, Eliza pats the two of them on the back gently as they leave in an unsaid gesture of sympathy. Behind her, Peggy’s curious eyes peer between the two.

James and Thomas walk to the Lexus silently. Moonlight frames the car’s red hue with its own silvery shimmer, casting a wide shadow on the sidewalk. As James pulls himself inside the vehicle’s passenger seat, he wonders if Angelica will forgive him. She has every right to be mad, what with him hiding from her his—disease—and trying to deny everything when confronted. But he hopes she’ll forgive him all the same.

Thomas jams the keys into the car, igniting a spark in the gas-guzzling engine. He’s more somber than James has even seen him, though not sad. Just, maybe—tired. Yes, that’s a good word for the way Thomas’ face is sunken and his suit is perhaps more jostled than it had been when James had first met him.

“I’m sorry,” James says once the car has begun speeding past house after magnificent house.

“For what?” comes Thomas’ disbelieving response.

“For making you deal with this.”

Thomas chuckles emptily. “Don’t apologize for something I did.”

A pause. “Why did you want her to understand so badly?” James can’t help but ask. Why does Thomas do any of the things he does for James?

“I just thought that maybe—maybe if she understood that part of you, the burden wouldn’t be on you so much anymore,” Thomas croaks. “You might start to see it in perspective.”

James hums in acknowledgement. “I see.”

Thomas elbowed his way into a rich family’s home and confronted its most aggressive member. The statement isn’t so extraordinary, except that he did it all to help James overcome a problem he’s had for almost his whole life. Is there anyone more amazing?

“Thank you,” James chokes out.

Thomas cracks a grin and asks, yet again, “For what?”

“For everything, Thomas.”

The rest of the trip home is silent.

(Cont.)

Two days after the dinner fiasco, James gets a call. When he sees the caller ID, he almost throws the phone across the room in surprise. Because it’s Angelica.

“Hello?” he warily begins when he answers it, not quite sure what to expect. Suffice it to say she’s been unpredictable in the past.

“James, it’s me,” says Angelica after a long empty period where the only noise is the fuzz of background cacophony. 

Before he can reply, she continues. “Look, I’m not here to yell at you for being a bad friend or anything. If anything, that’s been me. I called to say I’m sorry. Even if you tried to hide it, I never even tried to look closer. If I did, I would have seen how uncomfortable you get around people. And you do, I’m not about to let you deny it. So—if you ever need anyone to talk to—please. Just talk already.”

Once she’s done talking, a slow clapping noise emits from the other line. James hears a muffled “Shut _up,_ Peg!” and a laugh.

“Is everything okay?”

Angelica’s voice returns to the phone. “Yeah, just my sisters. You know how they are.”

James mutters a noise of agreement. Peggy can be quite the merciless teaser when she gets riled up, which is to say, she gets riled up often. And Eliza, though never unkind, has an adventurous spirit that mirrors Angelica’s, sometimes prompting her to join in Peggy’s antics. The two combined are sometimes enough to drive Angelica to visit James for a couple hours, if only to regain her sanity.

“I’m sorry too, Angie,” James replies, figuring apology should be a two-way street. “I shouldn’t have tried to keep it a secret.”

He swallows, mouth dry, before continuing. “And—it wasn’t because I don’t trust you. I do, but—it’s hard not to think of it as an inconvenience. Or, a burden. Which I’d be pushing onto you.”

Clenching his eyes shut, James prepares himself for the response. He’s not good at talking about himself. Or his emotions. Can never seem to make his mouth form words without choking up first.

A muffled laugh. The first he’s heard from Angelica in a long time. “Oh, James, you could never be a burden. We’re supposed to accept help from friends, remember?” she reminds him gently.

“But not if there isn’t an even tradeoff,” James protests. That’s how friendship works, right? You do something for me, I do something for you. Did he miss a class in preschool covering this stuff?

But because Angelica is more persuasive than she looks, she answers, “It’s not about what you do for me. It’s about what you would do for me. And I know you’d do the same if I were in your shoes.”

James no longer has the heart to argue. “Fair enough,” he surrenders.

“Brilliant,” Angelica chirps, “so how about we do some practice? Are you free next Sunday?”

“Sure.”

“Then come over again. I won’t be in the mood I was last time, I promise; had a major deadline, and on top of that, Jefferson was pushing my buttons. Plus, Eliza wants to have Aaron Burr over, too; she seems bored these days, and who better to share in her mindset than him, am I right?”

James recognizes the name; Aaron Burr went to college with him. He was a top student, prodigy, and practically a legend where he came from. He never seemed interested in anything or anyone, though, preferring building walls over building friendships. Still, it isn’t right of James to judge him based on what he remembers of long-gone days spent envying the man.

“Okay, yeah. I’ll see you then, Angelica,” he decides and hangs up after hearing her final cry of triumph.

It finally feels like everything is back to normal.

(Cont.)

James is starting to regret every life choice he’s ever made which led him to this; drinking alone in a crowded bar on a Saturday night. No music or dance floor or horny young-adult grinding, at least, but no shortage of groups of friends milling about, either.

He’d at least managed to enter the threshold, denying every self-preservation instinct within him to turn and run from the sign pasted in front of the bar labeled “FREE ALCOHOL PAST 10 TO-NIGHT.” But now he wonders why he bothers leaving his house when the thought of making conversation starts his head spinning. Or maybe that’s just the free alcohol. What kind of shady organization gives away free alcohol, anyway?

Another possible side-effect of the alcohol is that he frequently lands his eyes on a person who looks just like Thomas Jefferson, curl-fraught hair and devastating eyes and all, but then they’re gone again and he thinks he just imagined it. There, it happened again and now the world is underwater and everything is swaying and wow, how many glasses has he had?

James has to admit he may have gone a bit overboard in the start, wanting to forget the unpleasant sensation of isolation from the people around him and the shortness of breath associated with it. However, he still feels like his shy self after three glasses of whiskey, only now more inclined to drunkenly cry while swaying in his seat. James is not yet doing that, though he’s hanging on by a thread.

He blinks, and suddenly when he opens his eyes he sees Alexander Hamilton standing in front of him. How had he not noticed the undoubtedly loudest mouth in the building before now?

“Are you okay, James? You’re lookin’ kinda—off,” Alexander remarks, squinting.

Oh, right. Drunk out of his mind, he’d forgotten. “Don’ mind me, Al’xander,” he slurs, “jus’ drinkin’, same ‘s you.”

His words slip into a natural southern drawl, the one he usually keeps under wraps to prevent loaded assumptions in public but originates from his free-range childhood in Virginia.

For some reason, Alexander scrunches his face into a pained look. “Yeah, of course.” He takes a step closer. Then another.

His intentions become obvious, even to James’ alcohol-satiated mind, when he slides a coy hand up James’ arm, gazing vigorously into his eyes. “I want you,” Alexander claims, clear and slow and with every intention to fulfill upon this declaration. Eyes azure, clouded with upset. Lips moist, ready for a fight. Sultry grin. Hair tied back in a bun. Loose strands for yanking. Metal buttons for undoing. Slim figure. Tempting. James is tempted, unbelievably so. But while he does want Alexander, he doesn’t _want_ Alexander. He fights the haze of lust with every ounce of self-control he possesses, determined not to make the mistake of sleeping with one man while infatuated with another.

“Alexander, I—I can’t—I—” James stutters, unable to finish his sentence. He wants to run away, to do anything but have to reject Alexander, right here, right now.

His eyes dart left and right, searching for some way out. Unfortunately, instead they land on John Laurens. Who is staring at James. With a look that screams “you go through with this, we fight until prison or death.”

Alexander’s foot starts tapping as he becomes impatient. “Can you or can’t you?” he moaned, “I haven’t got all night. Unless… well.”

Their faces are a mere breath apart. Alexander’s is all lust and hurt and reckless abandon. James’ is unsure. He wants to say no, but… how? He’s rendered speechless partly by his shyness and partly by his own desire. But even he can see this is a bad idea.

But then something changes. In a split-second, Alexander is gone, replaced by thin air. Shell-shocked, James recoils, reeling, just in time to watch a fist meet Alexander’s face in a showdown of sheer power versus a drunk and exhausted man. Unsurprisingly, the sheer power winds and Alexander collapses on the floor, holding his hands to his cheek protectively and scowling at whoever just hit him.

“What the _fuck_ did you just do, Hamilton?” spits a scathing voice with all the wrath it can muster.

Horrified, James slowly raises his head to reveal Thomas Jefferson, fists clenched and face dark. What is he doing here?

At any rate, Thomas stands rather threateningly over the wiry body of Alexander, who isn’t in any state to defend himself from the looming figure hunched over him. So of course, Alexander resorts to arguing. “Try to seduce my, as far as I know, _single_ colleague and friend who you have virtually zero ties to?” he snarks, though he’s visibly scared and upset.

Thomas scoffs. “So that makes it okay to take advantage of him while he’s drunk?”

Alexander snorts. “I didn’t see _him_ pulling away,” he makes the mistake of saying.

James has to forcibly shove himself between the two as Thomas makes a lunge to punch Alexander again. “Thomas, let him alone,” he warns. Why is Thomas so angry?

Growling, Thomas shoves his fists in his pockets and takes a few steps away from Alexander’s trembling body, leaning heavily on a nearby stool. He almost looks remorseful, but not enough to have completely calmed down yet. “Fine,” he bites out and again glowers at Alexander.

Fortunately, before Alexander can say anything else which might get him another punch, this time perhaps to the gut, Laurens finally decides to intervene. The man had simply been watching the scene go on with a conflicted expression. He sneaks up behind Alexander right as he opens his mouth to say something else and grabs his arm, prompting a violent flinch and a yelp from the smaller man. Laurens merely mutters, “Come on, let’s get outta here,” and drags Alexander away with a parting dirty look at Thomas. The last thing James hears is Alexander utter “John?” incredulously, as if he’d never expected his friend to intervene.

Once they’re out of earshot, James turns back to Thomas. He’s sobered up considerably and now has the capacity to wonder what would possess Thomas to make him act so violently.

Thomas doesn’t meet James’ eyes. “Sorry,” he grumbles under his breath, unconvincingly.

James is baffled. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he protests, “at least, not to me, but why?”

Thomas is almost pouting. He sighs dramatically and drums his fingers on the table impatiently. Finally, he says, “Why did you flirt with Hamilton?”

“ _He_ flirted with _me!_ ”

“That isn’t what it looked like,” Thomas argues. “Just admit it already. You were about to kiss him.”

James feels himself get defensive in response to Thomas’ questions. Why is he prying so much? Moreover, why won’t he just let James equate this to a drunken mistake and drown himself in more alcohol so he can forget about it by morning? And _why_ was Thomas inconveniently watching while James did the one thing he didn’t want Thomas, of all people, to see?

“Well _I_ think he’s attractive, what’s wrong with that?”

Oops. 

Thomas levels James with an acidic glare which causes the sweat on his neck to turn cold. “Oh, I see. You’ll take whatever you can get, won’t you?” Thomas says, voice callously calculating but narrowly concealing the unbridled rage which runs beneath. He takes a stabilizing breath, running his hands through inches of frizzy hair, but it doesn’t seem to be enough for Thomas, because he tears his hand away a second later and rounds on James with flashing eyes.

“What’s so great about Hamilton?” Thomas suddenly cries, eyes clenched shut and shoulders closing in on his usually open frame.

James feels his eyes clouding over. “I don’t know, I don’t even _like_ him!” he shouts honestly, hoping Thomas doesn’t question him further.

“But you think he’s attractive?” Thomas asks with spite.

“I think a lot of people are attractive.” The confession doesn’t come easy, but as long as James doesn’t have to admit to who, exactly, he finds the most attractive, then… so be it.

Thomas’ shoulders sink, to James’ relief, but he still looks uneasy, like there’s something he’s leaving unsaid. His dark eyes dart every which way. James isn’t used to Thomas being unsure of himself, and he wonders if it’s a symptom of his being drunk. James is positive he’s drunk now, what with Thomas’ dilated pupils and the way he’s stumbling and struggling just to stay upright.

“Do—do you think _I’m_ attractive?” Thomas asks hesitantly, sending a wave of pure panic through James.

It’s the way he looks when he says it, too. Eyes clouded but alert, drunk but sincere. Cheeks scarlet. Jaw tightly clenched. Eyebrows raised in a question, body tensed in eager await.

It should have been the most awkward question in existence. It should have made James cringe in secondhand embarrassment for such honest and revealing words said from the mouth of a poor drunkard, unknowing of what consequences would come from this slip of the tongue.

But James isn’t sober, either, and all he can think about as soon as Thomas utters those words is full lips waiting to be preyed upon, dark eyes lightened by the electric candlelight hanging from above, lush hair made up in tightly-wound locks just waiting for hands to run through them and ruin their meticulous styling.

Without even thinking, he answers. “ _Yes._ ”

And all of a sudden, he realizes what, exactly, he just confessed to, with a dawning pit of dread lodging in his stomach.

And he runs.

(Cont.)

He isn’t even sure where he’s going until he arrives upon a familiar doorstep and knocks frantically, knowing he must look insane to anyone who might be watching.

James takes a couple steps back and waits pathetically for someone to open the door. His breaths come sharp and fast, reminding him of his childhood days when he was prone to asthma attacks, getting them almost every day. Thankfully, they, at least, had subsided after awhile. The stress of being around others never did, though. So here he stands under the glow of pale street lights. Alone and stressed and about to cry.

His heart jumps in hope when he hears a yawn, and footsteps near the door. Oh god, what will he say? How can he justify knocking at their door in the middle of the night because he couldn’t handle his own problems? 

The door creaks open despite every square inch of James screaming to wait, hold on, he isn’t ready, laying him bare for whoever answered it. He briefly considers running away yet again, but he finds his feet unhelpfully frozen in place.

It’s Eliza. She’s rubbing at her eyes and her hair is mussed, so she must have just recently woken up, but she’s wearing a nightgown which might function as a dress for people who don’t share her wealth, and her eyes become much more awake as soon as she sees him.

“James? What are you doing—oh, you look awful. Here, come in,” she says, welcoming him with a worried look and a motherly tone.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he enters. Apologizing is, for him, usually reflexive and not out of true regret, but James feels himself put more weight on the words as they leave his mouth this time. He doesn’t know why he couldn’t go home and deal with his problems by himself; he’s a grown man by now, for god’s sake.

Eliza’s concern intensifies, however, at James’ words. “No, no, it’s really not a problem,” she says, “you look like you need a companion.” She really is too kind for her own good.

James huffs out a silent laugh. He doesn’t believe her, but he’s not about to argue if she’s planning on letting him vent his frustrations out on her. “Right.”

“Would you like a drink?” Eliza asks, gesturing for James to sit on the couch and already walking towards the kitchen in preparation.

For the first time since he left the bar, James realizes that his throat has run dry. He doesn’t know whether it’s because of the alcohol or the confrontation with Alexander and Thomas, but either way, he isn’t about to pass up the opportunity for something to drink.

“Water would be nice,” he croaks, and Eliza nods and sweeps away to fetch some.

James takes the opportunity to curl up in a ball, holding his knees to his chest in an attempt to calm the thrum of panic through his veins. Or maybe he’s trying to cut off circulation to his lower limbs. With how tight he’s holding on, James isn’t sure.

He’s still attempting to process just what went so wrong that he effortlessly confessed to being attracted to his editor. The person he’s supposed to be in a _business relationship_ with. Though James supposes that everything went wrong much before Thomas decided to punch a man who was trying to have sex with him; it probably all started when Thomas witnessed James run away for _the first time_. 

James’ thoughts still when he hears Eliza’s footsteps return. She announces her presence with an “I’m back!” and hands him a cup of ice-water. James takes it gratefully and takes a sip, the liquid cool against his dry tongue. God, even the water here is delicious. Or maybe he was just really thirsty.

Eliza is looking at him expectantly. “ _So?_ ” she prods.

“It tastes… good?” James guesses, wondering what Eliza’s looking for.

“No, silly, what happened?” she says in exasperation.

Oh. James feels his face redden and he hastily launches into a description of the events which had transpired, starting with him sitting in a bar by himself, drunk, and ending with his confession to Thomas.

Eliza makes sympathetic noises and giggles and gasps in all the right moments, making James feel more comfortable as he gets into the more personal parts of the story. By the time he’s done, Eliza’s eyes are shining.

“Oh my god,” she squeaks, “he totally likes you.”

James has to forcibly shove his heart back into his chest. “Who, Alexander? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure he just tried to do me to get Laurens jealous—”

“No,” Eliza laughs, “Jefferson—why else would he get mad when Alexander did _that_ to you?”

Now his heart is definitely pounding too quickly, knocking the air out of James’ lungs. It’s not a wholly unpleasant situation, but really embarrassing all the same. He tries to play it off, scoffing.

“By those standards, it’s just as likely he likes Alexander,” James points out, chest clenching painfully at the thought.

“But he asked if you were attracted to him, right?” Eliza says, “That must mean he wants you to be!”

James feels his brain shut off. She might be right, but he would sooner sleep with a woman than give himself false hope. “We’ll see, Eliza,” he says, stretching across the length of the couch and yawning.

Eliza hums. “So you’ll talk to him, then?”

He gives it a second of thought and sighs. “I have to, if I want my book to be published,” he admits, even though James wants nothing more than to curl up and hide from the man from eternity. He’s not quite sure he would be able to do that, though. Thomas has the unique trait of being able to call attention to himself no matter where he goes. Something about his natural charisma, James supposes.

Eliza pats his shoulder and chirps, “That’s the spirit. I’ll be wanting couple photos when you get together, so don’t keep me waiting, okay?”

James grimaces at her positivity, but nods. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to muster up the hope she exudes so naturally. He’ll always be too afraid of failure to dream of success. But nonetheless, James can’t stay a coward forever. He has to confront Thomas about this, or at least apologize and try to repair the careful companionship they’d managed to assemble in the last couple of weeks.

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks, Eliza.”

Eliza’s eyes soften and she pats James on the head. “Of course, James, dear. You know you’re welcome anytime here.”

James just nods again, too afraid his voice will clog with gratitude if he tries to voice his thanks again to say anything else. He waves goodbye to Eliza’s disappearing figure as he walks back into the darkness, on his way home.

All James needs now is a game plan.

(Cont.)

The next day, he resigns himself to going the cowardly route and calling Thomas up to arrange a work meeting. At least it’s guaranteed to work.

He dials the number and anxiously waits for the call tone to either ring out or drop out. After three long rings, the line picks up. James clears his throat. 

“I, my next draft is finished. Mr. Jefferson.”

He pauses, waiting for a response and grimacing at his own choice of words. A fuzzy voice comes from the receiver a few seconds later.

“I see,” Thomas answers curtly, “I’ll have to—review it, then.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“So,” Thomas continues, “how about my place, then? I’ll send you the address. It’s not a, ah, public place, so no worries there.”

James gives a stale laugh. “I should think. So, yeah, uh, your place works. Um, when, I mean, what time?”

“Oh, yeah, right—Tuesday? At two? I mean, it doesn’t really matter, but—”

“No, two works,” James interjects. He’s free for the next foreseeable decade, so.

“Great! I mean, good. I’ll see you then, James,” Thomas says and hangs up without further awkwardness.

James breathes a sigh of relief that _that’s_ over and slumps down in his seat. Well, now he’s positive that he isn’t in luck and Thomas hadn’t forgotten all about the events of that night at the bar the next morning in wake of his hangover. But at least Thomas is still talking to him, albeit in a stilted and reluctant voice.

Now all James has to do is actually finish his ninth rough draft.

(Cont.)

After frantically scanning the scribbles of text on his computer for logical fallacies one last time, James slams the lid shut, prompting a long-suffering groan from the machine, and starts towards the door. It’s time, once again, to meet with Thomas Jefferson, and this time he’s equipped with fragile confidence and lines of dialogue stored in the “recently remembered” part of his short-term memory.

This time, James won’t have the pressure of trying to impress Thomas with the (temporary) cleanliness of his home, nor will he have to suffer through another public outing. It’s Thomas’ turn to be the uncomfortable one, but then again, there never really is a comfortable way to deal with accidental confessions of non-work-related matters like this, so James supposes they’ll both be the uncomfortable one.

No matter. James leaves briskly for Jefferson’s house, ready to face whatever’s waiting him on Rockefeller Avenue.

When he stumbles upon the house, though, it becomes very clear there was an elephant in the room when the two went to the Schuylers’ (a very nice house, mind you). Because Thomas’ house is literally big enough to fit an elephant in every room, judging by the looks of it. Gardens surround the house, full of vegetables, fruits, and other interesting plants. James is amazed at how bountiful everything is and just how _green_ a single person’s yard can be. Columns run vertical to the ground, shading the entryway to the house. All in all, it’s a miraculous sight. Thomas is waiting out on the lot, and though James still sees tension on his face, Thomas also looks a tad smug. Chancing another look at the brilliant mansion in front of him, James thinks it’s justified.

“Welcome,” Thomas greets when James slams the door to his car shut. He’s grinning like the Cheshire cat, seemingly incapable of tampering down the pride which is obviously dominating his face right now. James can’t help but think it’s fitting and somewhat endearing.

“You should have told me you had a house like this _before_ suggesting we got coffee,” James complains, boosting Thomas’ ego further in exchange for seeing that lovely smile widen.

“I call it Monticello,” Thomas says, patting the house affectionately on its panels. “I designed it myself.”

“You’re an architect, too?” James blurts out in surprise.

“Well, in my free time,” Thomas explains, brushing off James’ curiosity.

When they enter the house, though, James discovers that it’s _full_ of curiosity. Unusual gadgets line shelves and window-sills; a sundial, a wireless toaster, a chessboard with wooden pieces that look to be hand-carved by Thomas himself. In cavities in the wall sit unopened bottles of expensive wine, brand after brand of imported luxury item laid out for the world to see. But most plentiful are the countless books which line shelves of space in the house, so much so that it almost looks like a library instead of a home that someone lives in. There are books on birds, agriculture, rodents, linguistics, history, culinary arts, anything the mind could dream up is probably somewhere among the stacks of books which almost reach the ceiling. James stares in unabashed shock at the sheer volume of _things_ in the room.

Thomas chuckles, but doesn’t comment. “Should I get you a drink?”

Not wanting to be alone in this house for fear he’ll touch the wrong thing and send everything crashing down, James shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” Thomas says distractedly, pulling a notebook and pencil from his pocket and writing something down.

James sits in the one other space not crowded by books or oddball experiments and pulls out his laptop. He _really_ doesn’t want to make everything awkward this early on, but… he wants to make sure the air is clear as soon as possible. He opens his mouth to speak—

“So, about last week.”

Looks like Thomas beat him to it. His tone is crisp and his eyes are still focused on his notes as he says it, but James would have to be a fool to miss the slightly exaggerated sense of casualty in Thomas’ voice or the way his hand stops moving across the page when he goes to speak. Thomas most definitely remembers part of, if not all, of what went on that day.

“Yes?” James asks, swallowing involuntarily.

Thomas begins tapping the eraser of his pencil on the notebook in a nervous rhythm. “I didn’t mean to get so—so angry,” he admits.

James scrubs his hand against the back of his neck, trying to muster the courage to ask what he’s been dying to know for days now. 

“But why did you, then?”

There. James inwardly celebrates. That’s it.

Thomas’ hand twitches belatedly at the question. His pencil falls to the ground as a result and he scrambles to pick it up, unnaturally jittery. He takes a deep breath, briefly shutting his eyes. When they’re open again, they focus intensely on James. Once again, James finds himself unable to look away, too captivated by the looming allure of Thomas’ answer to break eye contact with him now. His eyes are deep brown and ever searching, always searching. But what is he looking for?

Thomas’ answer comes slow. “Because I didn’t want Hamilton making out with you.”

James finds a grin playing at his face. “And why is that?” he asks in a silent challenge.

Thomas doesn’t look away, doesn’t run. Instead, he says, “Because I like you.”

Now James lets his smile spread through his face, making his eyes crinkle and his nose scrunch up. Thomas watches in amazement, which in turn only makes James grin even more.

And in a rare and astonishing show of bravery, he’s the first one to lean forward, first to close his eyes and tilt his head, and Thomas meets him halfway and for a moment, for just a single fleeting moment in the vastness of the universe, all their worries and distractions fly out the window and it’s only the two of them and Thomas’ lips, Thomas’ skin, Thomas’ eager mouth on his.

Time around them seems to slow to an agonizing halt, enveloping them in a space where words don’t do these emotions justice and shortcomings are fulfilled by the other in the most full, satisfying way.

When they pull back, Thomas mutters the words “ _Je t’aime pour toujours_ ” and brings James into a soft embrace, and it’s even better this time because he’s happy and both of them are happy and everything is okay.

“You speak French?” James mumbles against the heat of Thomas’ skin.

Thomas strokes a hand through his hair, sending a pleasant shiver down James’ spine. “ _Oui, Ma chérie_ ,” he cooes, “I just picked it up and never let go.”

James would like to think there’s a double meaning in there somewhere, but he doesn’t ask, instead digging his head further against Thomas’ neck.

They don’t need a stage or a microphone or deafening applause from an invisible audience. In fact, neither of them would even notice, because they have each other, and that’s all that matters in this single, beautiful moment.

And all because James is not just an introvert, in every sense of the phrase.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An aftermath of in-story events.

In the end, James’ book reaches new heights thanks to Thomas’ profound insights and support, sparking ideological controversy among fans of Madison and Hamilton’s work alike and provoking conversations throughout many a household in America and even dipping into the depths of the internet.

Alexander nonetheless apologizes for his actions, bowing profusely and explaining he wasn’t sane at the time, please forgive him, etcetera. James is quick to apologize himself for almost going along with it and accepts Alexander’s apology with open arms, much to Thomas’ begrudging acceptance.

As James and Thomas’ relationship grows, so do James’ efforts to gain more confidence around others. And if he has to retreat to someplace quieter with only one other man’s company and a shoulder to cry on every once in a while, then nobody needs to know.

The world will always keep spinning, even without James’ permission, but he’s found a place where he can be comfortable despite that. And that’s all he’s ever wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little follow-up because the first chapter didn't quite feel satisfying.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this unusually long fanfiction I made; I really don't know what possessed me to finish it, but I just kept going and going, so.
> 
> Now we're here!
> 
> Comments, compliments, and criticisms are always welcomed.


End file.
